


no chuck taylors allowed

by minhoscallousedhands



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gossip Girl Fusion, Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Recreational Drug Use, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Well not really, crazy rich asians au, glader's parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-30 04:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8518855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minhoscallousedhands/pseuds/minhoscallousedhands
Summary: We've seen our (Problematic) Faves from the Maze Runner trilogy in a less than ideal--if not downright terrible--condition.Now imagine them being born into the wealthiest families in the world, thrown together in one boarding school barely anyone has ever heard of in an unknown location. Thomas, as always, is the curious Greenie, ventures into the whirlwind of frenzy that is the social life and politics of Labyrinthe High, with the help of the two exes a.k.a old married couple a.k.a Minho and Newt, and the not-so-clueless fellow Greenie Teresa.Things will take an interesting turn as Thomas discovered who his friends truly are, and even more so when the group found out what the school's true intentions are.Inspired by Gossip Girl and Crazy Rich Asians.





	1. our corrupted lungs

 

 

 

 

_"if you're still bleeding, you're the lucky one_

_cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs_

_setting fire to our insides for fun_

_collecting names of the lovers that went wrong"_

Daughter - Youth

 

 

 

 

 

**Glenn, Stephanie & Thomas Parsons**

A fourteen-year-old boy sat by his king sized bed, his big brown eyes starring blankly at the pile of clothes he had haphazardly thrown earlier this morning. His father had told him to start packing since last Saturday, but here he was, seemingly stunned by what was coming next. He was going to a boarding school for pompous pricks in the middle of nowhere, Labyrinthe High. A school he always thought was a myth. He’d heard of it a couple of times before from his childhood friends, but he didn’t think it was real. He didn’t think a boarding school created just to discipline rich kids actually exists. But the envelope on his desk, with matte gold cursive letters embossed on the cover, proved otherwise. For the millionth time, he reached for it and read the letter inside.

 

_Dear Mr. Thomas Parsons,_

_After a careful consideration, we are delighted to inform you that you will be enrolled into Labyrinthe High starting from February 20 th, 2015. Please refer to the attached brochure for further information on your departure and the required documents and items upon your arrival at our campus. For further inquiries, please contact the email address listed on the brochure. We are looking forward to having you in our campus._

_Regards,_

_Headmaster Kevin Anderson_

 

Thomas carefully folded the parchment and slid it back into its envelope. It was almost eleven in the morning, and his father would nag about his luggage again any minute soon—he was supposed to be all set by twelve on the dot. He winced at the thought, but he threw himself on his bed, knowing full well he still had a lot to do. “Thomas.” It was his mother, Stephanie. “Clearly you need help with packing.” She had a concerned look on her pale, freckled face. Thomas curled himself into a ball, and his mother climbed to his side, raking a hand through his hair. “Come on, sweetheart.”

“Why did you let him do this, mom?” he whined.

“It’s for your own good.” She didn’t sound so sure, because she actually wasn’t. She’s a math professor in Stanford, but no amount of education could change her husband’s stubborn mind. On one hand, she understood how hard her husband had worked to be able to afford the tuition. He had a difficult childhood, and he had to create his own luck and fortune to get where he is now. It was not until two years ago, she finally got tenured and her husband’s startup company started blowing up. They went from scraping the bottom of their piggybank to buy Thomas a bigger shoe to having the kind of money that lets them buy however many shoes they damn well please, virtually overnight. On the other hand, she and her husband had lost a lot of time with Thomas; they didn’t really watch him grow and it almost felt like the boy grew up on his own.

“Really? What good can come from locking me up in a school so far? Wait, no one even knows where it is!” Her oldest child’s nostrils flared, a telltale sign that the boy was on the verge of crying. It was always hard to watch her son cry. She remembered when Thomas was barely one year old; they lived in a shoebox apartment, living off her salary as a fresh graduate assistant teacher. They still didn’t have much when Charles came along six years after. It was tough, but Thomas never complained. He was a good kid, he always had been.

“They have the best education in the whole world, Thomas. Your father wants the best for you.”

“He just doesn’t wanna see me again.” Thomas remarked bitterly, he had already moved to sit next to his pile of clothes and started folding them neatly.

“That’s nonsense.”

“That’s the truth.”

Her mouth turned sour. Thomas didn’t exactly get along with his father and that was the truth. But she knew deep down, his father really wanted the best for him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas. You’ll be home for summer and Christmas,” she said, deciding that it was best to side with her husband this time.

Thomas continued folding his clothes wordlessly, images of his childhood playing in his head. How his parents were rarely home. How none of them showed up in his soccer games because they were too busy making ends meet. He found it ridiculous now that they have all the money they were so busy chasing around; they wanted to send him away. They made it seems so easy to believe that they love Charles more than they love him. He brushed the thought of his brother off, pushing away every jealousy he’d ever had towards him.

_It’s not right, it’s never right to hate Chuck. It’s not his fault he’s born in a better time._

“Thomas, you ready?” It was his father.

“Yes, dad.”

With steps as heavy as his semester worth of clothes and books, he left his room.

 

* * *

 

**The Blackwells**

“Finally some time away from you lot.” Newt chuckled as their limousine pulled up in a jet hangar just over an hour away from London. “Don’t miss me too much,” he halfheartedly joked.

“Manners, Newton. Remember, you’re a Blackwell.” William didn’t tear his eyes away from the newspaper he was reading as he spoke sternly to his son. His father was a tall, well-built British man in his early fifties with a shock of silver hair that made him looked slightly older, but still strikingly good looking with the slight tan he got from his trip to Koh Samui last week. He’d been a little tense this morning, his hair wasn’t slicked back as neatly as usual, and he didn’t let his butler shave his two-day old stubble. Hell, he didn’t even touch his scones and clotted cream and took his coffee black with no sugar. Newt knew something was up whenever his dad had a sudden disinterest in dairy, but knew better not to humor his curiosity then.

“Please, dad, I was just joking,” he protested. It wasn’t like his dad to say anything about their last name; he only got a shrug he didn’t even see. _Maybe something about work_ , Newt thought, and he tried not to let it ruin his jolly mood. He was actually excited to go back to school; it was his final year after all. Soon he’d be sent away to Yale like he’d always wanted, and go on his merry way to become an independent architect and live somewhere in Europe (maybe Sorrento? His Italian is flawless)—far, far away from his family drama. He didn’t care much for his father’s business, much less his mother’s diamond atelier.

“Newton, do not forget to tell your boyfriend we all said hi.” His mother, Nina, spoke in her thick Russian accent. Nobody would have guessed that she’s in her late forties. Her face is almost wrinkle-free, her subtle V-like jaw was framed with her platinum blonde hair she perfectly blown out, contrasting her black sleeveless shift dress, her neck adorned with a single strand of champagne colored pearls. She was running a lint roller all over the lapels of her son’s jacket—he was a little too excited to eat his scone earlier. “Do not get into any more fights with him, alright?”

“Mama, for the last time, Minho’s not my boyfriend.” He sighed, remembering the last time they met before winter break. His good mood automatically went out of the window, now that his mother brought up his on-and-off boyfriend. “He’s sleeping with the entire school for all I know.” 

“No he’s not. A Park wouldn’t do such thing.”

“You’re way too obsessed with last names, ma. You don’t know anything about Minho.” Newt contrasted, his hands trying to sweep away his mother’s from his tie. “Ma, stop. I’m sixteen, I can tie a Windsor knot.”

Nina wouldn’t let it go. “The Parks are and has always been an honorable family. You have to—“

“Oh my God, can we just go? My Xanax is kicking in.” A high-pitched whine came from the other end of the limo. Elizabeth exaggerated a yawn, then pout her pink lips as she played with her braided ponytail. “I wanna sleep in my suite before Rachel came and bother me with her boy problems.”

“You mean _my_ Xanax? Lizzie, you don’t need them—seriously, dad, Lizzie has a problem.“ Newt rolled his eyes in disbelief.

“CAN EVERYONE JUST STOP?” William barked, he had enough for the morning. “Nina, enough meddling. Newton, Elizabeth, leave the car and join the others.” He gestured towards the opening hangar and a herd of teenagers their age in dark blue uniforms, streaming towards a stark white two-story jet with pale gold ‘Labyrinthe High’ inscribed on its body. The kids obeyed their father, stepped down their car and said their goodbyes.

“Thanks,” Newt said once their parents were out of earshot. “The Xanax excuse is getting bloody old, though. Dad might take you to rehab, you know.”

“Like hell he will.” Lizzie grinned. “Mom’s popping them like M&Ms these days. I’m sure she’ll go first.”

“I hate it whenever she tells me to make up with Minho so she can suck up to his family.” Newt continued as the pair walked towards the jet.

“For a Blackwell, she’s way too insecure.” Lizzie remarked nonchalantly, as if she was not talking about her mother. The younger sister, just like other teenagers, had this love-hate relationship with her mother, with obvious inclinations towards hatred. Nina was always tough on her. She instilled (unnecessary) discipline early into her life and the petite blonde girl grew up to be the rebellious one out of the two siblings. Newt wasn’t exactly Mama’s boy either, but she smothered him with affection so abundant it was suffocating. Oddly, despite the unfair treatment from their mother, the siblings had a tight bond, something that their father was extremely grateful for. It spared him the headache of constant ‘ _whose side are you ons_ ’.

“Well, she’s only married to one.”

“What, you think dad would dare to divorce her?”

Newt let out his best fake chuckle. “Liz, you know too little about our parents.”

“Please, I’m only one year younger. What could you possibly know that I don’t?” she nagged impatiently. He just laughed a little louder.

The Blackwell siblings stopped to greet Randall, their school officer responsible to pick them up today. They checked in their mobile phones to him in exchange of their school ID and access card, and then they boarded on the plane. As per their parents’ request, one of the aircrews showed the siblings up to the second story where two suites reserved under their names were. Their seats can be reclined to a full king-sized bed, and they would be served a three-course lunch and afternoon tea during the eleven-hour flight. Newt was relieved that Lizzie didn’t press further about their mother. Building the anticipation to annoy his sister was always his favorite pastime, but he wished this were the case. His sister needed to be protected from the truth. _She can’t know how much blood Mama has on her hands,_ he thought. His heart pounded faster as he recalled the conversations he was not supposed to hear, sometime the middle of his winter break. He wished none of it were true, yet he knew exactly what he heard. His head spun, so fast that he just had to reach his little bottle of Xanax in his jacket, right after Lizzie went to the toilet and washed the pill down with a big gulp of Sauvignon Blanc served by the flight attendant.

“Everything alright?” Lizzie checked in on her brother, who had sunk into his comfortable recliner with his seat belt fastened.

“Just peachy,” he replied with his eyes shut as _his_ Xanax began kicking in.

There was a muffled roar, and the plane taxied to the runway, off to a place no one really knows.

 

* * *

 

**Arthur Park Jr.**

“So tell me, Ms. Historian.” An Asian boy snickered, settling his tongue between his teacher’s thighs under her skirt, clearly enjoying every squirm he caused. He had to get to the First Gala Dinner in less than an hour, but he had something far more important than socializing with his dumb classmates and social climbing freshmen. “Did you miss me?” he was way too assertive for his age, just a touch cocky—not to the point that it’s repulsive, but just enough to make her want to melt in his firm grip.

“Uh, uhm.” This was all sorts of wrong; she should have never gotten involved with this kid—not this far, not _physically_. Not only that he was underage, but he also was her student in her class. Still was for the next semester, and the one after that. But his olive skin and naughty winks and witty conversational jabs won her over in one swoop. How and why she had lost her panties at this point was beyond her. She, again, fought for composure, but the sixteen year old’s tongue went over and over her like his life depends on it. “Fuck.”

Dramatically, her student withdrew his mouth from where she wanted it the most, looked up to her as if her down there stinks like rotten fish. “Excuse me? Where are your manners, my teacher?”

“Can you please just go back—“

“Do you know why I’m here, Ms, uh--What’s your name again?” he slinked up to grind over her lap, his hard on against the center of the teacher’s heat. “Chloe? Cassie? – Wait, that’s my ex girlfriend.” He comically mused while softly running his rough hand through her brunette shoulder length locks. There was no way he could have forgotten the name of the teacher whom he’d been flirting with all semester—who also gave him his first B minus. “Just kidding, I know your name, silly.”

“So, Camille. Since you want to play this game,” he said, pressing his body against her, locking her on her chair and against the wall of her own office. The teenage boy surely knew what he was doing by keeping her on edge like that. He was certain at that moment, judging by the way she tensed up and relaxed at his mercy, she already regretted telling him they should keep their private lives separate from school. “We’ve been very clear about how we feel for each other last semester, yeah?” He continued while fumbling with his pants to finally wiggle free from them, not without noticing Camille marveling what was underneath it for a split second. Anybody else would look ridiculous wearing blazers without pants, but not him. With his tie loose and tugged to one side, shirt slightly wrinkled, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he looked impossibly hot. “But then, there’s that small issue, that B minus you _so generously_ gave to my finals,” he mocked a frown, “We need to fix that.”

“Well, I can help you study harder,” she cheekily stroked his hard-on. Pun definitely intended.

Minho threw his head back, enjoying her palming his cock. He tried to get back to business as he asked, “Do you know who I am, babe?”

“Everybody knows who you are, _Arthur_ ,” she stated mockingly. His last name is a world-famous legacy in the medical field. His father came from a long line of surgeons and is a neurosurgeon himself. He donated the whole dorm for this school. But the boy, who was named after his father, Arthur Park Jr., would rather be shot in the head than be called Arthur. He prefers Minho, the nickname his late grandfather gave him, which was probably half the reason why his grandfather gave so much of his fortune to him in his will.

“Oh, man! Not that name again.” He threw a mini-fit. “Call me Minho. Don’t ever call me Arthur, ever again.” _There can only be one dad, and there can only be one me._

“Okay, Minho.” She was desperate to get this over and done with. “Shoot me an offer, boy toy.”

The boy motioned her to bend over her antique mahogany desk. She obeyed and let him roll her pencil skirt up above her ass. “I’ll keep doing this to you if you give me what I want.” His two fingers slid in easy. _No surprise there_ , he thought. “Give me an A, and I will pleasure you a million different ways during the semester.”

She moaned a very breathy, “Yeah,” and some more satisfied humming. 

“Good girl.”

He fucked her until she was so disheveled and spent, a fuck so good she was almost certain she knew what having someone rock her world means.

“Welcome back to Labyrinthe High, Ms. Camille.”

 

* * *

 

**First Gala Dinner**

The Grande Hall of Labyrinthe High was finally filled with its usual crowd after a quiet two-month winter break. Exactly four hundred students from around the world were gathered in the cavernous space, clad in a myriad of designer’s clothes in this year’s color, bone and beige, as they were expected. The room was filled with round tables covered with beautiful taupe jacquard tablecloths, decorated with an arrangement of flowers in complementing tones of beige and off white as the centerpiece. The assembly looked regal, especially with chandeliers reaching down from the high wooden ceiling; emitting muted yellow light through its polished crystals. It looked a lot more like something out of the Great Gatsby’s scenes than mere high school students having dinner. But they were not just high school students. They were modern day heir to their parents throne; mostly business empires, some actually were prince and princesses, and some just happened to be born into families with immeasurable wealth. Labyrinthe High was the only school in the world that teaches, well, basically, how to be well-mannered rich kids. It was the only school that includes Business and Finance in elaborate detail in their curriculum, because these kids would have to deal with the wealth their parents give them before they could even think of applying for college. It was also the only school that fast tracks their students to any Ivy League institution of their choice. A school that will remain a myth to those who weren’t blessed with the wealth to afford it.

“Students, please find your seats.” A soothing voice echoed through the speakers. “First Gala Dinner will commence in fifteen minutes.”

On each table, there were four small cards indicating the students’ names and their school years. The seats were painstakingly charted based on family names—it wouldn’t be a rich kids school without their parents’ personal drama involved—personal relationships, school year, and GPA. Freshmen were usually seated in place of the graduated seniors. The seating chart will be used for various events throughout the year, so any change on the chart could be a hot tip to the latest affair in the high society. The students kept keen eyes on the arrangement in their surrounding tables to later gossip in their respective dorms because it was the closest thing they had to social media since their phones were checked in for the whole semester.

“Bloody hell.” Newt groaned at the name placed next to his seat. His family had set his table to have the least changes, keeping him out of social climbers’ scheming mouth. He had hoped someone mentioned his breakup to the person behind their seating charts, but apparently his parents’ idea of laying low was to keep him and his ex on the same table for _another_ semester.

“Hello, gorgeous.” Minho’s raspy voice, as familiar as it was annoying, greeted him right next to his ear before giving him a peck on his cheek. “Miss me?”

The boy came into view, looking debonair in his custom-made Tom Ford suit, his skin a little deeper caramel than it was the last time he saw him. He looked great; except he was no contest to Newt’s sense of fashion. Minho might be the one who had Tom Ford himself fit his suit into every curve of his muscle, but Newt’s outfit is a class of its own. Being naturally skinny makes him look like one of those grungy hipster models, with his blond bed head, thin lips, and sunken cheeks, but his choice of clothing screams exactly classy old money in the subtlest way possible. Newt had on this bone-colored bespoke shirt (no tie, buttoned up to his Adam’s apples) from his mother’s favorite tailor in Paris, and that was the only item that was remotely new. He was wearing his old Brooks Brothers two-piece suit, Blackwell family crest cufflinks, a hand-me-down Patek Philippe watch from his grandfather and his year-old brown Tod’s Gommino driving shoes in leather. Nothing flashy. It was only impressive to the trained eyes how nonchalant he was treating this gala dinner, how it subtly hints how many generations of wealth he came from, how well brought up he was—just to list a few of the many reasons why Minho was so hung up over Newt.

“Go to hell, Arthur.” Newt scoffed, trying to pretend to seriously read tonight’s menu.

“Oh, please, you’re the only person who can get away with calling me _that_. How about calling me Arthur in bed? Tonight?” Minho grinned, as he was eyeing his ex from head to toe.

Newt wouldn’t peel his eyes off the menu, but it was impossible to not notice Minho’s hungry eyes from his peripheral vision. “Last time I check, we’ve already broken up,” he spat in disgust.

“Then let’s get back together!”

“Christ, do you think it’s that simple?”

“I went to Australia this winter break and I’m a changed man.”

“Really?” Newt sneered. “Tell that to the thousand Aussies you’ve shagged. You have an issue, _Minho_ , and I can’t deal with that anymore.” He kept reassuring himself the whole time that no amount of mind-blowing sex would ever make up for the horrible things his ex had pulled throughout the brief period that they were ‘dating’. Minho himself firmly believed that his bedroom performance was impossible to be found elsewhere, so Newt would have no choice but to eventually crawl back to him.

Considering his odds that night, Minho opted to for once shut his mouth and shifted his focus to the possible occupants at his table. His best friend Ben graduated last year, and the last time he sparred Gally in wrestling club they almost killed each other, so those two were off his table for good. He took the piece of paper from the unattended seat next to him and it read ‘Thomas Parsons, freshman’. _Who the fuck?_ He wondered, not realizing he said it out loud.

“Who the fuck is Thomas Parsons?”

“The kid who helped his dad made your custom walk-in closet last year.” A voice from behind him rose, much to his surprise. “Hello, Minho.” He turned his head to find a familiar-looking boy probably as tall as him, clad in slightly oversized yet well-made beige suit (Minho’s money’s on Armani) and a taupe skinny tie in a sloppy Windsor knot. He couldn’t believe what he saw when he looked down—a pair of worn-down black (now greyish and a touch muddy) Chuck Taylor All Stars. _What is this mess?_

Before he could think of an insult, the messy brown hair and big brown eyes and freckles clicked in his head. “It’s you! Glenn’s kid!” he gasped, remembering the child his closet engineer brought to his parent’s house two summers ago. Thomas was so small at the time, and now it seemed that he had grown twice his size and lost all his baby fat; his jawline was much sharper, hardening his features. “What are you doing here?”

The question had a lingering bitterness to it, but it was nothing Thomas hadn’t expected. “Well, apparently I’m a freshman here,” he replied, realizing he wasn’t kidding anyone with his old sneakers. But then again, it wasn’t his fault the Ferragamos his mother told him to bring weren’t as comfortable as his trusty Converse.

“Glenn must be doing so well now!” Minho didn’t mean to be rude; he reserved that for people who deserved that side of him, but he didn’t quite hear it until he said it out loud. “He deserved it, he makes the best high tech closets—You have no idea how great my shoes look even after two years, thanks to your dad’s genius shoe closet!” he chirped, trying to make up for his ill manners earlier. “Come, sit! I hope you’re hungry, we’re having Italian food tonight.”

Thomas, who was relieved to kind of know someone here, finally took his seat. “Wow, you guys aren’t playing around—I don’t know if I can eat all of these in one sitting.” He gasped at the menu, raising his eyebrows as he counted the courses. There were five courses, and he could only pronounce fusilli and gelato since everything was written in Italian. At least he knew there would be ice cream for dessert, and that alone was strangely reassuring. He shifted his gaze to the well-dressed boy sitting right across him, who had been quiet since the moment he arrived at the table. Newt was looking down on his watch, blinking slowly, in a weird but peaceful trance. Thomas was hesitant to greet him; the way Newt carried himself had a certain _je ne sais pas_ that made him seem unapproachable.

As if he was reading his mind, Minho introduced him to Newt. “Newt, this is Thomas Parsons. Thomas, this is Newton Blackwell, senior year.”

Newt looked up, forcing a smile. “Hi, Thomas. Pleasure.” He was in no mood to make small talk, thanks to this jackass ex of his, but his father taught him better than to let his behavior be controlled by his emotions.

“Parsons as in Parsons and Conrad.” Minho added. “His dad invented this ingenious closet a couple years back.”

“Oh, so you must know Gally? Your folks are business partners, aren’t they?” Newt politely asked.

“Yeah, since we were very little. Our dads went to high school together.” Thomas internally cringed upon hearing the name. “He’s a senior here too, yeah?”

“Yes, he used to be seated on this table, but _this uncultured swine_ here almost snapped his neck in half on a wrestling sparring, so he’s supposedly far away from this table.” Newt glared at Minho and rolled his eyes, and got a giggle from his ex in return.

“Thank God. You know, I can’t stand him.” Thomas opened up. He was glad that he found someone with a common enemy. “One time when I was six, I think, my dad took me to visit the Conrads. You know, the mansion they have up in Bel Air. I was told to play with Gally in their backyard, he just bought this fancy remote control helicopter thing. He drove it into one of the large trees and came running and crying to his mom, telling her I was the one who did it! Something along the same line kept happening every time we see each other when we were little.”

“That can’t be the only reason why you dislike him so much.” Newt raised an eyebrow.

“Of course not. I mean, I don’t hate him, I never really have much against him. It’s him I don’t understand. From day one, he always seemed to dislike me. Our parents are business partners, and we’ve been doing lots of family brunches together and he always has this attitude around me.” Thomas explained, while his eyes searched the room, worried Gally would be near.

“Well, he isn’t exactly the warmest person.” Newt replied. “Not a lot of people here likes him, but I don’t think he’s a terrible person.”

“Who’s a terrible person?” A girl chimed in. She was about five foot four, wrapped in a beige Grecian goddess dress, her brunette hair swept up in a messy bun, showing off her freckled, slightly tanned skin. “Hey boys.”

“Why, hello there, gorgeous.” Minho’s eyes lit up as he scanned the newcomer from head to toe. _Let’s see; simple pearl stud earrings and a single gold bangle of unidentified brand—maybe another old money like Newt_ , he deduced. She was wearing the slightest hint of makeup, nothing more than some rosy blush and sheer pink lipgloss, letting her blue eyes pierce through her classy ensemble. _She clearly had nothing to prove._

Newt realized how Minho scrutinized the girl’s looked, and he instinctively took over the conversation. “Please, have a seat. My name’s Newt, I’m a senior.” He gestured towards her chair. “This is Thomas, a freshman, and this is Minho, very fittingly, a junior.”

“Do you really have to embarrass me in front of everyone tonight?” Minho didn’t like Newt’s tone, so he raised his voice.

“Have I? I am merely stating the fact.”

“What fact?

“That you, indeed, are both an uncultured swine, and impossibly juvenile.”

“Is this about last summer?”

“What do you suppose this was about?”

“Dammit, Newt, I said I’m sorry, alright?”

Newt’s face reddened and his jaws tensed up. He was taught to always behave nicely and never to argue on the dining table. The girl shot Thomas a look of confusion, and he shot back a shrug. Dead silence filled their table and noises from other tables felt like it was blocked by an invisible soundproof wall.

“I’m Teresa, clueless freshman here.” She hoped to diffuse the tension. “Nice to meet you guys. The menu looks crazy, and I’m starving.”

“Apologies for our behavior, Teresa.” Newt spoke up as the antipasto was served on their table. “Ah, speak of the devil.” A plate of fresh ciabatta bread and a variety of cured meat had arrived along with four knobs of herb butter and some black truffle infused olive oil. “The chefs make excellent bread, and they knew the best black truffle dealer—they infuse this olive oil with truffle themselves.”

“This school is so over the top. I gotta be honest, I’m still not used to all luxury everything.” Thomas said before stuffing his mouth with butter-slathered bread. Everyone else were covering their laps with their napkins, almost simultaneously, as if they were on cue, then took their respective butter knives and bread plates to use. He instantly felt bad being the one who grabbed a piece of bread first and using the dinner knife—Minho sort of gave him a dirty look.

“It’ll grow on you pretty quickly, but you’ll grow out of it just as fast.” Newt replied.

Teresa tried a piece of prosciutto, then hummed in approval. “My chef needs to find this _charcutier_. This is better than the one I usually have at home. 

“Believe me, I tried. My chef asked around, but no one he asked have ever heard of this school.” Minho said after he finished gobbling down two pieces of bread.

Feeling a little left out while his new friends casually talked about _their_ chefs, Thomas interjected. “Okay, okay. Two things. One, you guys have chefs in your homes? Two, why doesn’t anyone ever heard of this school? I mean, lots of people have graduated from here, right?" 

“Look at how clueless he is.” Teresa cheerily remarked, looking at the boy in a completely different light. “The Armani is a dead giveaway.”

Thomas looked at his suit. “How do you know—“

“We’ll teach you, kiddo.” Minho patted his shoulder. 

“Teach me what exactly? Teresa is a freshman too, why do I feel like I’m the only newbie?”

“Hey, there’s no need.” Newt rolled their eyes at the two. “Thomas, don’t worry. These two are just being spoiled brats. You are doing fine.”

“Actually, he’s sticking out like a sore thumb with those sneakers and this baggy suit.” Minho retorted, as if Thomas wasn’t there with them. “Look around you, Thomas. Everyone is dressed to the nines. You’re clearly loaded now, but you have no clue on how to spend your money!”

Minho wasn’t exactly wrong, but this was what Thomas had been dreading about going to this school. “I appreciate your concern, but I’d much rather you answer my questions,” he flatly said.

“Well, yes, we do have chefs at our homes. Mine work at lunch and dinner only, as my mother prefers to bake her own breakfast scones or cook some eggs in the morning. Yes, people have graduated from here, but the majority of them avoid the spotlight like the plague. We will all be sent into any college we want and/or can enter, so admissions will be well taken care of. After all, we’ll be dispersed all over the world after high school, and there’s not many of us, relatively speaking.” Newt explained.

“Oh,” was the only thing Thomas could manage out. The entire table sat in silence, munching their appetizer with lumps on their throats. He hated to be the buzzkill, but he couldn’t help but feel like an outsider.

Teresa was the first to break the silence. “You’ll fit in just fine, Thomas,” she said, feeling bad for what she had said earlier to Thomas. “I’ll be there to help, I mean, I’m new here as well.”

“Sorry if I sounded rude, Greenie.” Minho apologized. “You know what? We should drink, loosen up a little. 

“You guys drink _alcohol_? In school?” Teresa’s eyes widened, suddenly reminded of her father’s wine cellar he made very clear for her to never touch.

“Oh, yeah. We even have sommelier class once every month.” Minho grinned, then signaled one of the nearby waiters to their table. “Oldest white on your cellar, please. Put it on my tab,” he casually ordered.

“Right away, Mr. Park.”

“You guys are nuts. This school is nuts.” Thomas shook his head.

“Trust me,” Minho reassured him, “You wouldn’t wanna go anywhere else.”


	2. our fluorescent adolescent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas' first attempt at alcohol went terribly wrong when Gally showed up.

 

 

 

_everything's in order in a black hole_

_nothing seems as pretty as the past though_

_that bloody mary's lacking in tabasco_

_remember when you used to be a rascal?_

 

 

 

**Thomas and Teresa**

Thomas couldn’t stand another minute in Wealth Management class. He thought it was ridiculous; all he wanted was more time to pencil in some answers to his Physics homework. The amount of homework he had piled on throughout the first week was a horror on its own. Then there were books from the English reading list he hadn’t had the ~~will~~ time to read. And the pile of laundry he hadn’t done—freshmen students were expected to do and press their own laundry. Never mind his dorm—clothes and books and papers were strewn across the room, candy wrappers and empty Cheetos bags peppered between them, and his bed was somewhere under the pile of gunk.

His father was right. He was getting a little bit spoiled. His mother had always cleaned up his mess, and all he ever needed to worry about was doing well in school and soccer. Boy, did he miss the field. He wished there was someone to play it with this weekend; Newt said his leg was _fucked_ , he didn’t say how or why, and he couldn’t play any more even though he loved the sport he called ‘football’. Minho plays lacrosse, but Thomas thought the stick and whatever was too posh to his liking. So here he was, pondering upon his messed up first week in the dreaded boarding school, sleepily doodling through the most boring class he had ever attended in his life, waiting for Friday to be over. Just when his head was about to hit his desk, a tiny ball of paper hit the back of his neck. Scribbled inside was this neat tiny handwriting:

 

You’re still my date for Greenbean Night, right?

 

This had to be Teresa. He craned his neck to look at his friend, who still looked stunning even with dark circles and fading pink lipstick. Thomas was too tired to scrawl something back, so he nodded at her instead. Looking at her, it was hard to believe that absolutely nobody asked her to the party—he’d seen some seniors check her out when they were walking the corridors of the school together; the numbers didn’t add up. _Ugh, what is so important about this party anyway?_ Everyone down his dorm hall wouldn’t quit yapping about it; the venue, who to ask, what (or _who_ ) to wear, and who they were going to meet at the party. He heard from his roommate Aris, that Minho had fifteen people asked him to Greenbean Night, but he turned everyone down and was ballsy enough to ask Newt instead; and the rest was history. Newt himself was the only freshman who ever went with a senior, and he didn’t even need to ask him. As for Thomas, well, he heard someone said about him looking like a fried liver on a stick, so he didn’t expect a swarm of boys and girls wanting to be his date.

Thomas went back to faking an interest towards the stock market presentation slide, or more precisely, fighting every urge to drop his head on his desk and sleep. He easily lost and ended up snoring loudly when the class was supposed to be finished in ten minutes. Luckily, Mrs. Paige was kind enough to not kick him out of the class, and let the whole class go back to the Homestead early.

“Why didn’t you sleep sooner? We could’ve escaped that class half an hour ago.” Teresa smacked his backpack as they walk back to their dorms together.

“Um, actually, aunt Ava was a professor in Stanford, so she knows my mom.”

 “ _Aunt_ _Ava_? Wow.”

“Eh,” Thomas shrugged, “Man, I’m so tired. When is this party supposed to start?”

Teresa checked her watch. “At five, so like, in two hours.”

“Can’t hurt to nap.”

“Pretty sure you’ll sleep through it.” Teresa quipped, “You should shower, and meet me at the Tea Room.”

“Alright.”

The pair walked quietly after that. Thomas stared at the hallways of the Main Building, where the majority of their classes and activities took place, and it mesmerized him every time. The colossal structure looked a lot like Hogwarts, with its high arched ceilings and marble floor and tall frosted windows. The building was connected to the Homestead by a walkway, which was two parallel rows of equally spaced out ten-foot tall grey stone pillars flanking a paved pathway, lending a view to the Glade; the collective name for the entire campus. As far as Thomas’ eyes could see, only small patches of snow was left on the vast grounds and the trees were still short of their leaves, reminding him how far he was from home. It never snowed in California, and the snow just made him really, really homesick.

“Where do you think we are?” Thomas couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“Huh? The Glade?” Teresa paired her answer with knitted brows.

“Yeah, uh, where in the world are we?”

“Uh, I don’t know, Iceland?”

“Really? You really don’t care where we are, do you?” he badgered.

“Ugh,” she sighed, “I’m trying not to complain. It’s hard enough to be sent away and have so much work to do on the first week alone. I guess I never really give it much thought.”

“Right.” Thomas went quiet again. His friend had a point, and worst of all, she reminded him of his lengthy to-do-list, waiting to be checked off over the weekend. After the damn party. With possible hangover—not that he’d know what it would feel like. If Newt didn’t constantly remind him to show up at Greenbean Night every chance he got, he probably would’ve passed on the party and sleep in until lunchtime. _That Newt_. The boy who carried himself like a duke, who had been nothing but welcoming and kind to him. Eating dinner every day with him (and of course, Minho and Teresa) had always been the most fun part of his day—he was glad about the table arrangement. He was the least pretentious of the bunch, the easiest one to talk to. Maybe the party wouldn’t be so bad; washing down a week’s worth of troubles with alcohol was still a foreign concept to the fourteen-year-old, but at this point, he was open to suggestions.

“See you in thirty.” Teresa waved before they parted ways. They had arrived at the Homestead’s foyer, and the girl’s dormitory wing was to their left hand side. Straight ahead was the Senior’s wing, and to their right was boy’s wing. Thomas let his train of thought run free, wondering where the school housed their non-binary students for two seconds, then snapped out of it.

 “See you.”

**Greenbean Night**

It was a chilling 10OC on the rooftop of Homestead, but after climbing ten flights of emergency stairs, the cold wind felt like a breeze to the freshmen that made it to Greenbean Night, Thomas and Teresa included—an hour late and out of breath. He profusely thanked Teresa for talking him into changing his outfit to something more relaxed, the girl had him dolled up pretty nicely in a navy wool cardigan, grey t-shirt, pair of skinny Nudie jeans he didn’t remember buying, and his good old Chuck Taylors. Imagining the scrapes on his heel from the shoes he’d worn earlier made him cringe, and wearing his suit would definitely be a mistake.

“You guys are here early.” A dark skinned boy wearing a big smile and the coolest shoes Thomas had ever seen (Adidas NMD in olive green) with a clipboard in hand greeted them by the stairs. “I’m Siggy, senior year, host of this party. ID’s, please?” Right off the bat, he seemed friendly, like a really cool guy with tons of friends who throws the best parties.

“Yes, um, here.” Teresa and Thomas held out their school ID for Siggy to check, and then write something on his clipboard. There was a mix of surprise and suspicion on his face for a brief moment that poked on Thomas’ curiosity, but he digressed quickly.

“I thought the party starts at five?” Thomas asked, checking his watch as they speak. It was six p.m. on the dot, and no freshmen were in sight—only Siggy and about ten seniors helping him out were there.

“Well, Thomas, you now know that no party started this early!” Siggy laughed, baring his pearly white teeth. “You don’t wanna get drunk at eight, do you?”

“Um, actually, I’ve never been.”

Teresa giggled as Siggy asked, “Never been what? To a party?”

“No um, I’ve never had alcohol before.”

“I see. Don’t worry, She’s gonna teach you,” he gestured to the bar, manned by a girl that looked not much older than them, with black pixie cut and a black tank that seemed too skimpy to be worn in the cold. “Brenda, this is Thomas and Teresa.”

“Hi guys,” her doe eyes lit up, “Resident bartender of Labyrinthe High.”

“She knows every senior’s order by heart, and the only one in this island who’s allowed to make Headmaster Anderson’s sangria.” Siggy explained.

Thomas’ eyes widen a fraction, still amazed by how adamantly everyone in this school promotes drinking. _Underage_ drinking.

“Ooh, can we have that?” Teresa beamed a little too excitedly, eyes trained on the petite bartender.

“Sure thing.” She smirked, winking at Teresa. 

Thomas wanted to ask what a sangria is, but he decided not to embarrass himself again. As he sat on the stool of Brenda’s shabby wooden bar, he scanned the rooftop, the size a little larger than a basketball court with string lights hanging high up, canopying the venue in a zigzag pattern. Chairs and beanbags were scattered throughout the space over a layer of soft faux grass, and the dim yellow lighting created a more relaxed ambience with a slight modern/urban feel, especially with deep house blaring through the speakers.

Homesickness gnawed at his heart again as he looked at the view—nothing but vast oceans and the Glade—counting on the drink in his hand to try to wash the hurt down. Teresa somehow managed to chug her drink within seconds, which earned her a scowl from Brenda because she was supposed to enjoy it sip by sip, not down it like tequila. He took a sip, and couldn’t agree more with the bartender; it’s delicious, but it did nothing to him. Two glasses went down with ease in no time, but Brenda denied him a refill for a third and scolded him instead.

“Dude, take it easy.” Brenda shook her head.

“Why am I not drunk yet?”

“Would be embarrassing if you are. It’s only seven.” She slid a pint of dunkel, cream foam bubbling on the fizzy dark liquid. “Have some beer. It’s German, it’s crisp, and it’s good.”

“Thanks Bren,” another hand with slender pale fingers took the drink, “It’s my favorite.” It was Newt—much to Thomas’ relief—his honey colored hair was messily tousled in a smidge of pomade, wearing a dark grey cashmere jumper with sleeves rolled up to his elbow, black Ksubi skinny jeans that elongated his legs and a pair of black Doc Martens to add an edge to his look—making him easily mistaken for a model.

“Looking good, Newton.” Brenda smiled, bringing another pint of dunkel for Thomas, who was wondering how Newt always managed to dress impeccably and effortlessly with all the homework and classes—basically the school’s nonsense (He had no idea William Blackwell hired a butler for his son to press his clothes and sometimes pick an outfit for him when he didn’t feel like it).

“Hey, you guys. Brenda giving you the good stuff yet?”

“She made us Headmaster Anderson’s sangria, and it’s so good!” Teresa answered cheerily, jazz hands and all.

“I know, right?” Newt swirled into a conversation with her about how the school’s cellar was always fully stocked with wine from cities Thomas had never heard of, or really cared about. The growing crowd stole his attention, more people came to the bar and order drinks, and at some point it got too suffocating. Just before he slipped away to get some air, Newt talked him into trying some gin and tonic—his favorite cocktail.

“Where r’ya goin’, Tommy? You haven’t tried my gin and tonic.”

“It’s too crowded—I need to walk,” he answered.

The blond clasped his hand around Thomas’ wrist and yanked it. “Here,” He walked over inside Brenda’s booth, “You’d be okay with me here, love?” Newt asked Brenda.

“As long as you sit still,” she shrugged, hands busy holding six shot glasses all at once.

Newt sat on the floor of the small space, motioning Thomas to do the same.

“You’re gonna like it, Tommy,” he offered, clear carbonated elixir in hand.

“It looks like Sprite. Or seltzer. I like neither of them.”

“Tastes nothing like those two, I swear.”

He drank some just to get it over and done with, but he ended up liking the drink. Newt kept asking for refills and Thomas followed his lead and they went through seven glasses without gagging. Conversation flew easily, they gush about soccer, about their favorite clubs and how much Thomas envied Newt since he had the geographic advantage to see Chelsea play whenever he could. Time passed swiftly as they bond over Premier League, Thomas didn’t realize they’d been sitting there for nearly two hours, in a cycle of drinking and talking and then drinking again.

Sometime in the middle of a light banter over the possible player transfers, Thomas’ mouth tasted slightly of bile so suddenly, and his breathing grew labored.

“Newt, uh,” suddenly speaking became a struggle, “I need some air, I, I’m gonna get away for a bit, okay.”

“You alright mate?”

“M’fine. Just slightly dizzy—it’s fine. Gotta go freshen up.” His words were dragged ever so slightly, and Newt thought he was fine—he seemed fine—so he let him leave, not noticing that his friend was still holding the glass of gin and tonic.

Just when Thomas was a couple of steps away from the bar, he heard a familiar voice behind him. “Hey, Parsons,” and he regretted leaving the bar instantly. There were only two people who knew him before this school, one being Ava Paige left him with the other: Gally. The tall boy had a buzz cut and freckled pinkish skin and satan’s eyebrows, and was clad in a black Kenzo sweatshirt with its signature tiger on it, black skinny jeans, and a pair of classic Timberland boots. “Should I call Glenn? Tell him about that glass you’re holding?”

Thomas swirled his gin and tonic purposefully, then downed the whole thing all at once. “Go ahead, Conrad,” the name rolled out rather uncharacteristically from his tongue, showing a hint of confidence he’d never really displayed before, especially not in front of Gally. “My dad doesn’t give a fuck.” _Whoa, is this how it feels to be drunk?_

“Actually, this ain’t bad for your first party _ever_ , Greenie,” the wrestler mocked, “Saw you came with a hot date, talking to big Blackwell, well done.”

“Leave them out of this,” the threat posed no edge of danger, poorly enunciated.

“Think they can fend for themselves just fine, unlike you.”

 _Unlike you, unlike you, unlike you,_ the phrase echoed in his head, along with the memory of little Gally wrestling a much smaller him, fighting over a piece of Lego. Their dads had to break out their fights, and Thomas was the one who ended up with more cuts, bruises or scrapes. Why he seemed to hate him so much was a mystery he’d been dealing with since he was a little boy, and Thomas didn’t think for a second he’d still be worried about that in high school.

“What do you want, Gally?”

“What do I want?” one of his brows shot up, his right knuckles white as they crack, his left palm rubbing against it. “Y’know I’m captain of the wrestling club, yeah?”

Thomas shrugged idly, nursing his empty glass still in his damp hands, feeling his surrounding slowly spinning.

“I wanna see if you have what it takes to get in.”

“I don’t wanna be in your stupid little cuddle club,” Thomas slurred, coherent thoughts drowned in alcohol, catalyzing the anger he’d suppressed from his childhood to boil his blood.

Gally was a couple inches away from him all of a sudden with his fist balled up, ready to swing. It was Bel Air all over again.

Gally never missed.

His knuckles landed right on Thomas’s right cheek, tipping him off balance to the left, his glass slipped and shattered on the floor. The noise drew the crowd’s attention, some rushed to help Thomas up and kick the splintered glass to the side.

“Already, Gally?” a voice Thomas didn’t recognize asked, a cue to the crowd to leave a circle of space for the old friends to fight.

“Come on, Greenie. Get up. See what you’re made of.”

The words didn’t quite register in his head, but he got up anyway. “I’m gonna kill you, Gal,” he snapped, feeling something liquid and metallic dripping from his nose.

“Someone twice your size tried and chickened out, so go on. I’d like to see you try.”

A drone of booing sound filled the air, and then turned to a chant of Thomas’ name. _You can’t chicken out this time_ , his six-year-old self told him in his head.

Thomas charged forward with his right fist meant to reach Gally’s nose, but the wrestler’s forearm deflected it.

“Too easy,” he sneered. “Pathetic, just like back in the days. 

The spite in Gally’s voice pushed Thomas to surge forward, ducking this time, aiming to grab his middle, growling all the while. He pushed and pushed, splitting the crowd behind Gally in half, then felt his opponent’s knee painfully connecting with his sternum. His grip around the older boy’s waist lessened and he backed up clumsily, almost falling on his back, if not for a warm fuzz of cashmere cushioning the back of his head out of nowhere.

“If you touch him,” Even through the pain and effect of alcohol, Thomas would still recognize Newt’s voice, dangerously calm yet stern, “You’d have to deal with me.”

And that was the last thing he’d heard before he blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be called 'our middle ground', and solely based on Minho's POV. ;)


End file.
